


On Target

by devilinthedetails



Series: The Ties that Bind [4]
Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Beginnings, Competiton, Friendship, Gen, Knight & Squire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 08:57:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12791148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilinthedetails/pseuds/devilinthedetails
Summary: Imrah asks Roald to be his squire.





	On Target

On Target

“Are you going to take your turn or continue to stare at those crows, Cleon?” Roald nudged Cleon, who seemed more interested in a murder of crows perched on the branches of an oak on the far side of the practice courts than in the target he was supposed to be aiming at, to remind him of the archery competition with Roald in which he was theoretically engaged. 

“Shooting at a target that doesn’t move is so boring and easy.” Cleon pulled an arrow from his quiver. Nocking his arrow, he aimed it at the gossiping crows in the oak. “Firing at birds that can fly away is much more impressive and practical since it’s not as if a battlefield provides many targets that just stay still. I bet if I shot one of those crows, I’d have a knightmaster in an eye blink because I’d have proven that I’m at least good for hunting supper.” 

“I think you should stick to the targets we’re supposed to be aiming at, Cleon.” Neck knotted with tension, because he could feel the gazes of the knights assembled around the archery out piercing into his back—speculating on what defects in the heir to the throne’s character would cause him to slack even for a moment in training. Princes were expected to be perfect: never vulnerable, never exhausted, and never distracted by the wisecracks of a rowdy friend. “Everyone is staring at us and not in a good way.” 

“I’ll fire at the targets I’m supposed to.” Cleon shifted his aim to the target circle across from them and loosed his arrow. It thudded into the padded wood a handspan above the bull’s eye. “Only because I don’t want to impress a knight enough that I get chosen. I’d much rather lounge about here, telling my jokes to anyone who will listen, than have to obey a knight who could be a complete tyrant with no sense of irony for all I know.” 

“You wouldn’t want to go unselected.” Roald nocked an arrow, drew his bow, paused to make sure his aim was as true as he could make it, and fired. To his satisfaction, his arrow landed three inches left of the bull’s eye. “You’d be stuck here all alone with nobody to laugh at your jokes.” 

“I wonder what it’s like to be alone and friendless.” Cleon’s eyes darted over to Zahir, who was practicing by himself on the target to their right. All his arrows had, as usual, hit the bull’s eye. “I guess I can just ask Zahir about that. Can you imagine how insufferable he must be that even Joren and his ilk won’t tolerate him any longer?” 

“I don’t think that’s fair.” Roald wasn’t about to let an unjust comment go even if—or especially if—it had been voiced by someone he considered a friend. “A more accurate statement would probably be that Joren and his ilk are so insufferable that Zahir won’t tolerate them any more. We should support his desire to break free of them and have him shoot with us.” 

“I’d rather shoot myself in the foot.” Cleon made a droll face, but Roald ignored him.

“Zahir!” Roald shouted, and, when Zahir glanced at him, he continued at a lower volume, “Want to practice with Cleon and me?” 

Zahir ruminated over the offer for a moment. Then he shrugged his shoulders, crossed over to his target and began to remove the arrows from the bull’s eye to tuck them into his quiver. 

“You’re a right royal fathead, Roald,” grumbled Cleon. “Why did you have to invite the best bowman in our year to come over and show us up in front of half the knights in the kingdom? Now I’ll never get picked as a squire.” 

“I thought that was what you wanted.” Roald attempted a teasing tone but Cleon wasn’t appeased. 

“You don’t have to worry about getting shown up or not getting chosen,” muttered Cleon with a hard edge of resentment. “You know who will pick you.” 

Roald might have retorted that Clean should stop talking about things he obviously knew nothing about if Zahir, quiet as a shadow, hadn’t slipped up beside him. Seeing Zahir, Roald shot Clean a warning look and said, “Zahir, Cleon and I are having a competition to see who is a better archer. You can take the first turn if you’d like.” 

“As you wish, Your Highness.” Faster than lightning flashing across a summer sky, Zahir nocked, aimed, and fired his arrow into the center of their target. 

“Show-off.” Cleon stuck out his tongue. “Get off your high horse before someone knocks you off it.” 

“Don’t be jealous.” All haughtiness, Zahir lifted his nose in the air. “It’s not my fault that you never learned how to lower your bow properly before loosing the arrow.” 

They continued to practice—competing in banter and bow—as the sun grew hotter overhead until the bells rang noon, marking the hour of their midday meal. His tunic pasted to his spine with sweat, Roald followed Cleon and Zahir out of the archery yard. 

“A word, Your Highness?” The question came from Lord Imrah of Legann, one of the knights gathered around the fence to watch the squires training as Roald left the archery court. 

“Of course, my lord.” Roald inclined his head in polite assent because a prince couldn’t very well refuse a conversation with one of the premier nobles in the realm: the head of one of Tortall’s most prominent families, the lord of the fief with the wealthiest city in the kingdom, and the mastermind who devised many of the strategies that protected the coastal regions from invasion. “It’d be my pleasure.” 

The archery yard had already emptied, Roald realized, with the squires streaming off to lunch and the knights disappearing in pursuit of some other diversion. He and Lord Imrah were quite alone apart from some cawing crows on the far side of the court. 

“I would give you some advice.” Lord Imrah’s eyes that clearly missed no detail swept over Roald, and Roald remembered that aside from the Bazhir, Legann men and women were widely regarded as the most adept archers in the country. Vulnerable to incursions from Bazhir tribes attacking out of the desert, to raids from pirates, and to assaults from foreign navies, the people of Legann had become deft wielders of bows and arrows. No doubt Lord Imrah could detect every flaw in Roald’s form from his stance to the way he held his bow or nocked his arrow. “You hold onto your shot too long before taking it. If you hold on too long, your eye tires and loses focus on its target, while your muscles”—Lord Imrah tapped the upper part of Roald’s drawstring arm to emphasize his point—“tense, weakening the strength and accuracy of your shot when you finally take it. You would do better to fire within the time it takes you to count to five or lower your bow and aim again.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir. Thank you.” Roald nodded, absorbing the correction. It figured that in archery, as with so many areas of his life, his most noticeable fault was his hesitancy. 

“I also wanted to ask if you would be my squire, Your Highness,” Lord Imrah went on, pale eyes locking on Roald, and Roald could see the fierce intelligence in his gaze. “You’ve some idea of my teaching style now, so you may make an informed decision.” 

Roald’s eyes widened, and he wondered if all squires felt this wrong-footed when they received a formal offer from a potential knightmaster. He supposed he shouldn’t have been shocked since Lord Imrah was one of the kingdom’s most respected strategists, but a part of him even he knew was childish wished that his father had chosen a knight for him that looked at least slightly less austere than Lord Wyldon. Judging by the stark lines of Lord Imrah’s pockmarked face, he had never heard nonetheless laughed at a joke, though Roald understood that sense of humor hadn’t entered into his father’s calculations at all. Lord Imrah would be a fine match for him in every other way, after all. 

“I’d be honored to accept your offer, my lord.” Roald bowed because that was what squires were supposed to do when they came into a knight’s service. 

“I’ll teach you all I can—tactics, repelling raiders, and dealing with merchants among other things.” Lord Imrah clasped Roald’s shoulder. “You must understand, however, that though you are a prince and I appreciate the implications of your rank, Your Highness, I intend to treat you as I would any other squire in all ways including discipline.” 

Roald’s cheeks burned whether at the thought of receiving preferential treatment because he was a prince or at the assumption that he would expect it he wasn’t sure. 

“I respect your authority, my lord,” Roald spoke softly and had to resist the temptation to stare at the ground by reminding himself sternly that it was rude not to meet the eyes of the man you were addressing. “I’ll strive to be obedient to you in all matters.” 

“I believe you will.” Imrah’s hand squeezed Roald’s shoulder gently, and it might have been a trick of the almost blinding noon light, but Roald imagined he saw a flicker of amusement in Lord Imrah’s gaze. “Rest assured, I’m not so severe a taskmaster as Lord Wyldon.”


End file.
